


Firebird - Debridement of Civility

by AJGhostWolf



Category: Ashes - William W. Johnstone, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Original Work, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Apocalypse, Cults, Gangs, Gen, HALFASS, Holocaust, Implied/Referenced Avengers, Nuclear Fallout, OUT OF THE ASHES, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Lives, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Vigilante, Vigilante Justice, War, Worldwide War, Writer, cannibals, cowboy, superhero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJGhostWolf/pseuds/AJGhostWolf
Summary: Former rancher, LEO, and soldier turned writer, Walker Guerrero, is targetted by the gang/cult HALFASS for his writing, but a much darker undercurrent in in the works, and he'll be picking up what's left from the ashes of a scorched-earth national fallout. With a sardonic personality, there isn't much an apocalypse can do to mess up life any more, but as gangs and cults that make HALFASS look like a church choir roam what's left of the land, Guerrero is elected to pull humanity back up and rework it to a stable state. With any luck, he might manage to do it right this time.





	1. Chapter 1

Howdy all, figured we'd start with some general intros and warnings before getting to the story. Rated Teen+ for language and violence. This work is unashamedly modelled after William W. Johnstone's Ashes series, a phenomenal set of books but an extremely acquired taste, so I hesitantly recommend at your own risk. 

Also, this work is probably going to piss some people off. I'm okay with that, opinions are good as long as you recognise everyone has a right to them, good and bad and everything in between. A few of my opinions are going to be fairly obvious in this work, and a few of them aren't going to be popular. If you don't like it, don't read it. And don't assume, please. Several things in this work are not my opinion, they are simply and only for the work. Please take some time to read more than a few lines to spout judgement at me. This is a work about a bad situation, so bad decisions I do and don't support are going to be made. Like or dislike, I'm writing honestly about a fictitious situation, so please reserve judgement. 

And finally, thank you for reading. I know my fics often start slow, so I appreciate the patience and the interest in my work, and I always attempt to produce good content at an acceptable rate. Happy reading! 

* * * * *

Firebird the newspapers called him. 

So named because he’d crashed into that damned car in apprehending some purse-snatcher. He’d correctly figured it was totalled. Wasn’t any wonder, he’d landed square on it. Apparently it had been a Firebird. 

Not his first choice, but hell, it’d do. 

Walker Guerrero sighed and stretched, feeling the two cracked ribs from that particular instance creak slightly in protest. He pushed the newspaper aside and started on a cup of hot coffee, staring out the window at the city below. 

He had certainly not wanted to move to the bustling metropolis of Denton, he’d wanted to keep his butt parked right where it was in rural Idaho on the Weber ranch, but the damn Cappies, George Cappie Publishing, had already gotten the ball rolling and basically forced him into Denton. There was already an apartment in his name with six months paid. 

Their motivation was that if Walker wasn’t ranching, he’d be writing. And his writing would bring them millions a pop. So they jerked him practically next door to the company, in an expensive, well-to-do section of town and told him to get to work. 

If Walker didn’t like and respect George Cappie so much as a friend, he would’ve told him to go to hell or shot him, or both. He didn’t take it too kindly as was, anyway. 

There was a knock at the door and Walker warily stood from the kitchen stool and ambled to the door, a cocked and locked Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm in his right hand. He covered the peephole with his palm a moment, to make sure no one was gonna shoot through it, before actually putting his eye to it. 

The man that stood outside was an ugly son of a bitch, for a fact. Dirty, muddy eyes, unshaven, patchy hair and what he might laughably call a beard, and Walker could already smell him through the door. The wolf-dog, Murph, had gotten up from his place in front of the AC and stood by him, head cocked and he regarded the door. Walker gave him a glance as he gave a short, low growl. 

Then he opened the door, staring with no friendliness at the man standing there, an equally ratty and disgusting backpack in his left hand. The look on his mostly expressionless face said ‘state your business.’ 

“‘Ey man, you’re Walker Guerrero, right? I’ve read yer books.” He gave Murph a none-too-loving and all-too-scared look, before looking back up into Walker’s eyes. He was plainly expecting a response for that. When he didn’t get one he said, “I, uhh, I said I read yer books.” 

“So,” Walker just said, voice rough and uncaring. 

The response startled the man and put him off balance, and he was sore about it, mumbling, “Well . . . . I don’t know. I have a delivery for you.” 

“Being?” Walker asked, seeming in no particular hurry. 

The man--punk, really--looked at him and blinked. “What?” 

Walker caught his sigh. “What is being delivered?” 

“Oh, uh, I don’t know.” The punk started rummaging around his filthy bag, and Walker made the mental note that on the off chance this was serious, he should write a letter concerning malpractice and general cleanliness. After a long time of rooting around, the punk finally pulled out a slightly mangled box, no address or labelling visible, and tried to hand it to Walker. “Some kinda box.” He was sweating and licking his lips often. 

Walker just stared at him coldly. “How did you get this address.” 

The man made a show of getting belligerent. “I don’t know, man. I’m just the delivery guy. Here’s your delivery.” His eyes were all over the place. 

Walker continued his unsettling staring, saying tonelessly, “Yeah, right. You’re a goddamn liar, kid. Fuck off.” 

He made to close the door when the punk wedged his foot in, eyes going cold and a sneer settling. Murph started to growl. The punk said, “Goodbye, Mr. Guerrero,” and came up with a pistol. 

So Walker shot him. Center mass, almost certainly fatal ninety-nine percent of the time. 

The punk’s gun, a grimy, garbage showpiece that badly needed to be thrown away, went off into the door jam before he dropped it, falling back across the hall with a shocked look on his ugly face. Walker stepped into the hall after checking for anyone else with ill-intent, kicking away the pistol and stood over the punk, eyes cold and dispassionate. 

“Who are you?” he asked, borderline tonelessly. 

The punk, face pale in pain, spat at him. “We are members of the Honorable Americans Leading For Abolishment of Social Stigma, and we’re after you!” 

Walker blinked and took a moment to digest that, then started laughing. “Alright, HALFASS,” he chuckled. “What the hell attracted your attention?” 

The punk’s features went sour and disgusted. He obviously hadn’t added up the acronym for himself before. “Your books,” he snarled, clutching at his burning chest. “You’re a bigoted, racist, sexist, shithole!” 

Walker stared down and actually smiled. “Oh, sure, I’ll admit to the shithole part, but you couldn’t point out one section of my books that proves anything else you just said. And anyway, I write fiction, so what the hell difference does it make?” 

The punk continued the tirade. “You’re a stupid, honky, pro-life, pro-gun, conservative, discriminatory, pro-dictatorship, piece of shit!” 

Walker again smiled that wry smile. “Now who’s being a discriminatory bigot?” He looked over at the punk’s discarded gun. “And you seem to be rather pro-gun yourself, excusing most of what you said as wrong anyway.” 

The punk was panting, but his eyes were filled with hate. 

The hallway was beginning to attract attention, and Walker carefully holstered his pistol. He silently thanked security camera evidence. 

“You’re racist redneck trash, Guerrero!” the punk screamed. “You’re a psychopathic, sadistic, anti-progress, scum and we’re after all like you! You’ll get it you damn fucking hick cracker whitey peckerwood trailer trash--” 

And he died. 

Walker looked up, seeming unfazed, at a nearby onlooker and just said, “Well he’s wrong, I ain’t from the South.” 

* * * * *

Rudy Mcmahon stood at his desk looking down at the freshly minted case file and sighed, frustration mounting deeply within him. HALFASS, and the corners of his mouth quirked at that, was apparently a fledgling group or gang, at least according to Walker Guerrero. 

Mcmahon walked to the coffee dispenser and watched it fart the watery sludge into his cup for a while, rolling the situation around in his mind and mentally chewing on it. He never really cared one way or another for Guerrero, he didn’t personally know him or read many of his books. He was of the opinion that the cowboy-turned-writer was good at his profession, but he was opinionated and got plenty of hate for what he did. 

Mcmahon was not a political man, and he respected Guerrero for (mostly) keeping politics out of his books, but he didn’t understand why the man continued writing books that were getting him death threats, and often for the dumbest reasons. 

“He’s a hedonistic bastard!” a HALFASS member in custody screamed through the precinct, having seemingly read Mcmahon’s mind. 

Mcmahon fought the urge to ask the dirty gang member if he could even spell the word, knowing the answer was probably no, he probably could not. If he even knew what it meant in the first place, and no, he probably did not. 

Mcmahon walked back to his desk and settled down, staring wearily across the battered steel at Guerrero, who for his part sat nonchalantly in his chair, one leg across the other leaning slightly back, looking for all the world like he was not handcuffed in a chair in a dimly-lit police station facing murder charges. Oh there was no doubt it was self defense, but guilty until proven innocent was the order of the decade anymore and they had to have evidence of the fact. 

“Did you call Samantha Ford to take care of my dog?” Guerrero asked, slightly startling and phasing Mcmahon. 

“You mean the wolf in your apartment?” Mcmahon asked, seemingly unruffled, eyes on Guerrero as he shuffled papers in his hand. 

Guerrero gave his almost-not smile and said, “No sir, my dog. I picked him up as a stray and don’t give an ape’s hot shit what he technically is.” 

Mcmahon sighed away the building chuckle. He didn’t much like Guerroro but damn, the man had a sense of humor. “He has a good temperament at least,” he conceded. He shifted in his chair and fought back a yawn. Same old shit different day. “Why did you shoot Rory Whitaker?” 

Guererro’s eyes sparkled and he said dryly, “So that was his name. I didn’t have time to ask before he pulled a gun on me.” 

“So that’s why you killed him.” 

“That’s why I shot him,” Guerrero corrected him. “The killing was more a side note course of events.” 

Mcmahon obviously didn’t know how to process that, so just stared for a moment before lightly shaking his head and moving on. “Why did he pull a pistol on you?” 

“I imagine because he wanted to shoot me,” Walker just dryly said, tone ironic. 

Mcmahon made an exasperated noise of irritance. “Yes, I  _ know _ that, mister Guerrero.” 

Walker grinned and said, “Really? Then why are you asking me?” 

Mcmahon had to both restrain a bark of laughter and a sharp comment about intelligence, though Guerrero was certainly a man of high intelligence and very much sarcastic humor. He just paused a moment to control himself and said, “Yes mister Guerrero, it is likely he wanted to shoot you. But why?” 

“Oh he listed several, mostly profane, things about my books and my character.” He shrugged. “Nothing of truth or tangible substance.” 

“Well obviously enough substance to gather a movement,” Mcmaone said with slight rancor. “Don’t you get it, man? You just had a man try to  _ kill  _ you!” 

Walker gave him an almost affronted look. “Do you expect me to curl up like a child and bawl? I served ten years in the military, and another ten in law enforcement. I spent most my life on rural ranches with ongoing land feuds. I’ve always had someone trying to kill me. No point working up about it. And besides, HALFASS,” he grinned as he said it, “is hardly as intimidating as a two-ton longhorn out for a fight.” 

Mcmahon just shook his head. “I obviously can’t personally attest to that, mister Guerrero, but I have to take this threat against your life very seriously. Are you going to stop writing your books? Or at least recall them, release a public apology, something of that nature?” 

Guerrero was now visibly offended. “Absolutely not. To do so would be to admit defeat to those damn bigots. My personal opinion is none of their business, if they didn’t like my books they shouldn’t have read them!” 

Mcmahon just blinked again. “I don’t understand,” he eventually said. “Why continue to write when so many dislike what you’re producing?” 

“I’m not in a popularity contest,” Walker told him fairly coldly. “Whomever wants to read my books can. There are many who have written me that they rather love what I produce. There are probably eight times as many who don’t. So what. Big deal. I don’t want to watch the news, am I gonna tell every single station that they’re wrong for producing it? Hell no!” He had anger in his expression. “If they’re picking something so stupid to get pissy over, let the stupid bastards do it. They’ll get no sympathy or quarter from me!” 

Mcmahon set his cup down carefully and slowly said, “Is that a statement of threat, mister Guerrero?” 

Walker gave him that slow ironic smile. “Naw, I mean I ain’t giving them coins or cash.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the fact that both of them knew that was bullshit, Mcmahon couldn’t exactly do a damn thing about it. Nor did he particularly care. You do stupid shit you get what comes from stupid shit; should that be a bullet, well, so be it. 

“Has my friend confirmed my story?” Walker asked, nodding backward toward the holding cells and the HALFASS member within. 

Mcmahon looked up to confirm the unserious smile, then flipped through the report. “Yes, he was rather . . . .  _ resounding _ about their opinion on you.” He glanced up again. “He says they’ll continue trying to kill you, and we confirmed that there was a bomb in the box they tried to give you. Damn miracle it didn’t detonate from hitting the ground when you shot Whitaker.” 

Guerrero was, again, seemingly nonplussed by the news. “For something as stupid as the perception of words of a fictitious nature.” He shook his head. “The only thing that truly bothers me is the . . . . well, the foolishness of it. Why care? What makes life so not worth enjoying you have to manufacture problems to incorrectly solve?” 

It was Mcmahon’s turn to shrug. “You are a well-spoken man, mister Guerrero. Intelligent people will never understand lunatics and idiots.” He shuffled uncomfortably at the familiarity he’d just expressed with the otherwise stranger. “So, sir, will you at least be moving out of your apartment?” 

Walker considered the question for a moment. “Yes. I can deal with trouble anytime but I certainly don’t want to invite it.” 

“Where will you go? Out of Denton?” 

Walker chuckled. “Hardly. HALFASS has manufactured a little war, but I’ll not run from it. A bunch of thugs and angsty zealots don’t frighten me too badly.” He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. “I’ll move to somewhere more out-of-town, if possible, make them work for it. If not,” his shoulders rose and fell. “Hell always has an open invitation.” 

* * * * *

The video evidence from the three hallway security cameras was subpoenaed, and Walker was released with warning to stay close by for the trial. It was silently agreed that it wasn’t going to be a long one. 

As Guerrero walked out, Mcmahon said to the desk Sergeant, “That’s a damn strange man.” 

The Sergeant, a tall woman named Mick Mejia, somberly stated, “Strange, sure. But you can bet he’ll outlive several of us.” 

Mcmahon nodded in grim agreement and went back to his desk. 

Walker got a ride back to his apartment from Samantha Ford, a distant cousin or something he’d never met until he first came to Denton. She liked Murph and tolerated Walker and that was all that mattered. They weren’t friends, but they got along. 

After fixing up a late dinner, Walker switched on the TV to a local news station and began packing, not really paying much attention. He wanted to be out of the apartment before midnight, even if he only took the bare essentials and slept in his truck all week. 

The sudden story, “Rising tensions between Russia and Great Britain are reaching new and concerning heights; the E.U. is re-proposing an amendment to the Geneva Convention stating that POWs from recent conflicts will not be returned to their homes and may even face execution. Canada and America have not stated which side of the issue they will be taking, but several sources indicate they will support the E.U.’s decision. Australia appears to be siding with Russia, as does the majority of southern Africa and the Middle East. Rumors purport a third World War in the making, even as Mexico and the Dominican Republic are being devastated by civil war from the ramifications of the ‘Blip.’ 

“In other news, today downtown a puppy in a strawberry costume mascotted for a farmers market! This cute little pup--” 

Walker switched the TV off and mulled the first story over. He hadn’t even heard that Mexico and the D.R. were  _ in _ civil wars. As for the possibility of WW3, he didn’t discount it. Dumber decisions had been made by dumber men, though honestly he’d be hard pressed to say when. Decisions were made by popularity as opposed to actual ability, and it was royally fucking the world over. 

Murph, in his usual cool spot, lifted his big grey head and growled at the door, and Walker had his pistol in hand. 

“It’s Mcmahon,” a voice said softly. 

Walker moved slowly, repeating the same peephole routine and eventually opening the door while behind it, carefully looking out with gun half-raised. 

Mcmahon stared back at him, a paper bag in one hand and a carrier with two coffees in the other. He raised an eyebrow and simply said, “Wondered if you’d left. Thought I’d bring you some lunch, since we occupied so much of your time.” 

Walker smiled and nodded. “C’mon in.” 

Murph sat in front of the AC and stared on intimidatingly, but little else. 

“Pretty sure it’s illegal to own a wolfdog,” Mcmahon said, staring back at Murph with slight nervousness. Damn thing was  _ huge.  _

“That’s nice.” Walker raided the bag and started chewing on a bagel sandwich, resuming his packing. 

Mcmahon gave up on the Murph front, it was like arguing with a quippy stump. 

“I guess those Sokovia Accord things have passed,” he instead said, sitting at Walker’s counter and grabbing a bagel for himself. “A little after the fact by now, I think, seeing as the whole  _ ‘Blip’ _ thing already happened. And they’ve reunified. But whatever. Getting that fifty percent back was enough to clear the ledger in my book.” 

Walker nodded slightly dismissively. “The ranch I was on lost a third of their stock and three quarters of their men. Damn horse disappeared out from under me and I broke my leg. Finding a hospital still operational and taking patients was hell.” 

Mcmahon nodded. “It actually saved my life. Gangbanger shot me in the chest and was going to shoot me in the head when he just disappeared. So did my partner and my Captain, though.” He shrugged in dismissal. “I didn’t feel too bad when the ‘banger came back on top of an open manhole.” 

Walker laughed. “No, I wouldn’t either. It was quite the scramble there for a bit.” 

“Well, at least Stark donated so much to relief work, even with, y’know, him losing his arm.” 

Walker shrugged. “I’m a country boy, I don’t much keep up with the celebrities. Though I’ll grant he’s well-worth twenty celebrities any day.” 

“You and me both.” Mcmahon contemplated over another bit of bagel, then softly said, “I guess this World War Three thing is really picking up.” 

“Only just heard about it,” Walker admitted. “And yeah, it’s pretty scary. I ‘magine, worst comes to worst, I’ll just set out a gun and get drunk.” 

Mcmahon regarded him a moment and slowly nodded. “I’ll probably do the same, but hell, who knows.” 

* * * * *

“Ahw hell,” Walker spat, turning off the T.V. and throwing the remote hard into an armchair. “I think we oughta just build one half of the nation into pure city and put the blues there, and make the rest into little rural communities. Let each side elect their own leader and have those two hash out respective rules for each. People in the city just don’t understand how living in the sticks is, and vice-versa. One set of rules for both just ain't never gonna work!” 

Rudy just stirred some honey into his coffee and said nothing, knowing Walker wasn't really wanting a conversation about it. 

He’d been over to Walker's new apartment several times now, first as kind of a friend and now working on something a little more. He hadn’t known Walker, who was widely thought to be a hard core Conservative, was actually a pretty fair mix of Liberal on certain things. His taste in romantic partners for one. 

Rudy had always been pretty close-mouthed about his sexual life, but somehow Guererro picked up on it and started being closer than just a friend. Rudy sure didn’t mind. 

It was right then that a dull _boom_ sounded and everything went black. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this has received very limited attention, but attention nonetheless so I will keep writing! Right well, this fic is mostly based on The Ashes book series, so the Avengers had to be somewhere else to have survived the nuclear exchange that happened. Obviously I can't stick strictly to the book canon, so things will be slightly different if anyone here's ever read them, but I'm keeping it as close as possible. The last section of the chapter it a direct copy from the first book Out of The Ashes, since y'know, writing's hard. Let me know what you think, I really enjoy reading your comments and your suggestions help me decide the direction I want to take this fic. Hope you enjoy! -AJ

“Well you guys visiting was a good idea,” Clint said sadly, staring at the satellite image that what was left of SHIELD had just given him. 

New York was in nuclear rubble. So was Chicago, L.A., and every city with a decent sized population. Every other nation on Earth was either in ruin or blown from the globe completely. Mutually Assured Destruction, scorched earth, all of the terms people throw around without a proper mental picture of the real deal. There was no telling the number of casualties just inflicted. 

Washington DC was obliterated completely. 

The Avengers had taken a small vacation to Clint’s little farm in Missouri, and it was indeed a good thing they had. Much of the world was now bombed and irradiated to shit. The power grids were down, cell towers and internet connections were completely gone. The picture Clint had been handed was a sheet of paper, the last picture of New York City captured before the satellites lost connection. The fact it existed at all was due to pure luck. 

“We need to go back,” Steve said, studying the image with horror in his eyes. “We have to help.” 

“We’d die,” Bruce simply said. “If not by radiation, by whoever, or  _ what _ ever, is still alive in there.” 

“Well what can we do, then?” Steve demanded. “The people were counting on us to protect them!” 

Nat put a calming hand on his arm. “This isn’t our fault. It’s politicians and greed, probably, but we may never know. In the end, all that matters is that it’s  _ not our fault.”  _ She sighed. “I don’t know  _ what _ we can do other than lay low and try to help where we can. There just isn’t anything else.” Mentally she added,  _ because nothing’s still standing. _

* * * * *

Tony was working in Clint’s barn, amid a tidy mess of wrenches and wiring, trying to work on a robotic prosthetic with the one arm he still had. 

“Shit!” he growled as a tiny screw escaped and disappeared to screw purgatory, the dirt floor. For a moment he stood there, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, limbed or not. Life was just shit. And becoming more shit all the time, apparently, because New York was gone. All his work, gone. “Shit.” 

Pepper was, thank God, in the house with Laura and the kids. The fact that made him sick was that Peter was still in New York. 

“You better make it, Kid,” Tony said to himself, slamming a wrench into the workbench top. “Goddamn it, you’d better--” 

* * * * *

And all across the nation, billboards were painted to read

BEN RAINES--CONTACT US AT MILITARY 39.2--WE ARE LISTENING--WE NEED ORDERS

And Ben Raines was getting drunk in Mississippi. 

* * * * *

“This is Ben Raines,” he spoke slowly. “I hear you people have been looking for me.”

“How do we know you’re Ben Raines?” a voice jumped back at him. “We ’ve had two dozen crank callers.” 

“How do I know you’re who you claim to be?” Ben challenged. 

“The Bull told us about the last time you two saw each other. He shouted something to you as he stood in the door. We know what he said. And if you’re Ben Raines, so will you. Do you remember those two words?” 

“Bold Strike,” Ben said. 

“Sorry, General Raines, sir. But we had to be certain. Lots of snooping going on.” 

_ “General!”  _ Ben blurted. “Man, I’m not a General.” 

“Yes, you are, sir. Begging your pardon.” 

“I’d like to know just who in the hell told you that!” 

“Colonel Dean, sir.” 

“A Colonel can’t make anybody a General. 

“The Bull can--and did, General.” 

Ben released the mike button. “Shit!” he said. “Now what?” He pushed the mike button. “How . . . ah . . . do I scramble this thing?” 

“On which end, sir?” 

“Both ends!” 


End file.
